Two Women on a Train

By Michael Villa

She wore pressed clothes, matching shoes, an oversized hat, and clip-on pearls. When she crossed her legs on the aisle seat, Sophia saw her. She didn’t want to be obvious, so she sat in the front rows, then drifted a few rows behind—opposite side. She wore her boyfriend’s jeans, tennis shoes, and a shirt small enough to show her belly ring. She watched the woman open and close a small mirror again and again. Men passed and looked. Not Sophia. The woman read a book, tilted her head left, then right. Then the mirror came out again, and this time, their eyes met. The woman stared for a full minute, like she was looking at her own reflection. A man passed with his wife and said something kind. The woman shut the mirror and turned to the window.

Sophia moved closer—not quite within reach, but close enough to see how fine the fabric was. Better than her jeans, even though hers were top-of-the-line. Morning light filled the train car. The woman looked out, unmoved, and seemed to float above everyone. Sophia took the seat behind her. The woman’s hair slipped over the headrest. It smelled like trees. Sophia didn’t touch it. She touched her own instead. It smelled like nothing. She waited. The mirror came back. Same angle. Same eyes. The woman saw Sophia peeking. The train stopped. The woman stepped off. Sophia watched her shrink to a speck in the back window. Then she sat in the seat the woman had left.

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Michael Villa is a writer and classical guitarist from California. He has performed in the United States and in Sicily and has taught music for more than a decade. He writes about music, travel, and the inner lives of artists. He is finishing a novel and two novellas.